7 am: The radio alarm clock goes off in the girls’ bedroom. I share a room with my sisters and can’t imagine it any other way, but mornings are a little funny. For some reason, none of us speak to each other as we get up and prepare for the day. Silence reigns until we get downstairs, and if anyone happens to say something, she is met with incredulous looks. One would think we had taken a vow of silence.

But I digress. We love our radio alarm because we wake up to something different each morning. Today was “Motions” by Matthew West, and the words keep going through my head as I go downstairs to read my Bible:

“I don’t want to go through the motions
I don’t want to go one more day
Without Your all-consuming
Passion inside of me…”

It’s a good song to have in your mind. I’m reading through the New Testament right now, and today’s chapter is I Corinthians 8. While it can be a challenge to be awake enough to really grasp what I’m reading, I’ve found that unless I make my Bible reading the first thing I do in the morning, I tend to forget to read at all. The day just gets busy so fast. I treasure this time in God’s word as the day begins.

We generally do our barn chores before breakfast. Today Betsy and I are on milking duty while Katie prepares scrambled eggs, homemade sausage, and hot chocolate for breakfast. I love going to the barn in the morning and working with the animals — I’m such a country girl! Sunshine, our lovely Jersey cow, is giving lots of milk this year (5-6 gallons per day), so we’ve been making a lot of cheese and butter. The boys take care of the meat chickens, beef cattle,  and laying hens. When the chores are done we gather for breakfast with good appetites.

Summer means church league softball around here, and this particular Saturday is the end of softball season: tournaments! Since it’s threatening rain, only the older boys head into town (30 minutes away) for the 9:00 game.  We girls stay home and pick second-crop peas. The garden has been a real challenge this summer — it’s been both cool and dry, so our yields are definitely lower than usual. We’re thankful for whatever we get, though. The guys call while we’re shelling peas. The opposing team didn’t show up, so we won by default. Next game will be at 1:30, so they are coming home for lunch.

Since we knew we’d be attending the tournaments today, we did our house cleaning yesterday. We divide the work into three main jobs — bathrooms, dusting, and floors (we love a dry Swiffer® for the hardwood floors!), then each girl takes one job. I must confess I don’t much care for the bathroom cleaning job, but it’s something that can be done to the glory of God if I have the right attitude.

So, with the housecleaning out of the way, the peas done, and a little extra time before lunch, what would most busy farm girls do? Get a little high-speed exercise! Okay, maybe not most.  But this summer my sisters and I have been running about three times a week. We aren’t marathoners, and we only run about 2.5 to 3 miles (usually around the hayfield — told you we are farm girls!), but we’ve really enjoyed it. We run at the same time, but often in different directions or on different trails, and we listen to music as we run. It is a real worship time for me. My favorite running music is Third Day’s Wherever You Are CD. It’s full of upbeat and energetic songs, which is important for keeping me motivated while running!

After running (and showers), we join the family for lunch. We typically have leftovers or sandwiches at our noon meal. Today we’re hurried, trying to finish the dishes and noon barn chores before it’s time to head to the tournaments.  There’s a special surprise for the softball team that we made last night — a cake in the team colors that says “Lakeside Softball: Great Year!” It has been a good year, fun to watch and fun for the guys who went into the tournaments at the top of our division.

We don’t do as well in the tournaments as in the rest of the season, unfortunately, but it’s still fun to watch our friends, neighbors, and brothers play. The wind picks up, blowing in some pretty dark clouds and occasional rain shower. Good thing we brought umbrellas! We win one game and lose two, ending our season on a bit of a sad note, but thankfully we serve the cake right after the winning game.

Dad brings pizza for us and the other fans (this is definitely not typical, but just as definitely appreciated!), so that takes care of supper.  It’s time to head home and do the barn chores one more time. Sunshine the cow is waiting to be milked, the chickens need to be secured in the safe barn for the night (yes, there are many predators who would like nothing better than a tasty chicken dinner!), and the cows are nearly out of water.

Regardless of the busyness of the day, we always end it the same way: the whole family gathers in the living room and together we read a chapter of Scripture aloud. We practice a few memory verses. We share prayer requests. And then we “come boldly unto the throne of grace” and let our “requests be made known unto God.”

And that…is one Saturday at Castleberry Farms. Come join us sometime!

The rest of the week…

• Monday at the Farm in the City by Lanier
• Tuesday in the Writing Life by Elisabeth
• Wednesday in North Idaho by Chantel
• Thursday at the Little Pink House by Gretchen (with series introduction)
• Friday in Sunny Southern California by Ashleigh
• A Peek into Your Day by YLCF Readers

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

I just love Mondays. Call me crazy, but I really do. There is just something about the sense of order that it brings, the reigning in after the comparative slackness of the weekend, that motivates me afresh every week. I like to bring my house back into order, and with it, myself, reorienting around my priorities within the blessed boundaries of routine. Ever since I have been married I have structured my weeks loosely around a basic schedule: laundry and finances on Monday, shopping on Tuesday, baking and ironing on Wednesday, social commitments and projects on Thursday and cleaning on Friday. And after ten years, these basic parameters are so ingrained I don’t even have to think about them. It’s like my mother told me once, you need a routine so that you’ll have something to be flexible from! And while I’ve seen these words proven true over and over again, no matter how crazy a particular season or week or day might be, I always have my little schedule to welcome me back to sanity when things settle down.

This Monday was just a good, normal, at home day. It seems that over the past month or so I’ve either been traveling (good!) or sick (bad!) so a quiet day of washing and folding and sorting and filing has been even more of a joy than it usually is. Today started just as every other one does, Monday or not, with a cup of tea brought to me in bed by my obliging husband, who has learned after ten years that I can sleep right through an alarm and only begin to assume a semi-conscious state after a draught or two of The Stimulant has passed my lips. I have my devotions upstairs with another cuppa, and am inclined to linger until I hear Philip close his closet door downstairs, signaling the next stage of the morning routine: the barn.

This morning was cool and sweet—almost like fall—and the dogs were so happy about it and the impending breakfast that our appearance heralded that they pranced and capered alongside me from the gate to the very door of the feed room. While they were eating, Philip did the mucking and I employed myself with the all-important task of petting the sheep and giving them each little scratches and rubs in the places they like best—behind the ears and on the tops of their heads. Everyone seemed more interested in that than in going out to pasture—as is the case many mornings, we walked out with them into the tall, dew-wet grass, with the accompanying attendants of little black cats and big white dogs. Only, Puck and Pansy, my utterly spoiled Nubian goats, trailed back to the barn with us after we left the sheep in the pasture, and stood at the fence wailing in protest when we left them in the barnyard to go back up to the house for our own breakfast.

Seven cats, another dog, a fish and two hives of honeybees later, it was time to feed my husband and get him out the door to his morning meeting. The only problem with his nourishing breakfast of hot oatmeal and fresh blueberries was that he had to take it in a mug to eat in the car, as he spent his actual breakfast time fiddling with the html in my YLCF post of the day. But I made his lunch in the meantime—a turkey sandwich on fresh homemade bread—and took the chicken out of the freezer for supper, thinking all the while of what one of my newly-married friends had said to me once upon a time: “When I get up in the morning, my first thought is, ‘What are we going to have for breakfast?’ And my second thought is, ‘What am I going to fix my husband for lunch?’ And my third thought is, ‘What am I going to cook for supper?’” I related with a happy little inward laugh this morning.

As soon as Philip was off I fell to my Monday chores. I got the laundry going, watered the plants, cleaned out the fridge, and sat down to plan my meals for the week since I’ll be shopping tomorrow. After that I spent some time at the computer, paying bills, answering emails, checking up on the budget. I rewarded myself for all my diligence (I may love Mondays but I hate paying bills!) with a turkey sandwich of my own (perhaps mildly precipitated by a reminder call from my husband to actually, you know, eat lunch). One chapter in my book over said sandwich, and then one of my indispensable little cat naps, without which I’d not make it through the day, with my faithful calico companion, Josephine, curled up at my feet.

The afternoon was one of those in which the phone literally rings off the hook. I forced myself to actually sit down in a rocking chair on the front porch to enjoy both the surprisingly lovely eighty-degree weather and a couple of conversations with beloved friends, rather than stomping around the house ‘being productive’ as I am usually tempted to do under similar circumstances. I had a wonderful talk with precious Gretchen, who, I am happy to report, confessed herself to be in the hammock in the yard with her feet up like any good pregnant lady should be.

When I got off the phone with her, I realized that my husband should be making his appearance soon, as yet another quick call confirmed. So I made a dash to fold up the remaining laundry waiting in the big French market basket I use, and to make up the bed with sheets fresh from the dryer, warm and soft. That done, I started dinner—I am unabashedly old-fashioned, but I really do love it when the aromas of whatever’s cooking waft out to greet Philip as he comes up the front walk of an evening (ideally not the smell of burned things spilling over onto the element! ). Tonight I stuffed a chicken with onions, tucking some fragrant garlic cloves under the skin and topping it off with a lovely bouquet garni of fresh herbs from the garden: rosemary, savory, purple sage and thyme. Philip’s favorite mashed potatoes, made with little red new potatoes still in their skins and sliced fine, later blended with a little butter and milk and plain yogurt with a dash of rosemary for good measure, and a simmering pot of butter beans completed the meal.

It did smell quite temptingly when he got home, but as it was a little later than usual we decided to go ahead and put all the barn babies to bed before eating ourselves. The reverse of the morning, tucking everyone into their stalls at night, all safely gathered in and secure, is truly one of my favorite parts of the day. Tonight Puck and Pansy saw me coming from far across the terraced pasture, and with a whimper and a neigh they came running, bringing their sheep siblings with them. When I entered the barnyard there was a regular small stampede—goats, sheep and dogs all vying for my attention and literally knocking me over in the effort. Philip found me seated on the ground with a loving host all around me: licking my face, tugging at my hair with strong little teeth, poking long Nubian noses inquisitively into mine. I managed to disentangle myself and we performed the evening routine: shooing the last chickens back into their run and shutting the door for the night, searching for renegade eggs in the barn, laying out fresh straw for the babies and mixing grain. Puck and Pansy always stand expectantly on the step of the feed room, licking their lips and nibbling imaginary savories at the very idea of the coming grain, while the sheep hold back politely, knowing their turn will come next.

Once the animals were fed and mineral trays restocked and water buckets changed out—and stall doors bolted against the occasional breakout which can become a real free-for-all—we fed the dogs and played with them for a while. I think it’s their favorite time of the day, as well. Diana always looks so sad when we finally leave her at the gate for the night, but Juno has usually already assumed her post of regal watch, enormous white paws folded, noble head erect, ears pricked to the slightest sound. We chased our Aussie Caspian back across the yard up to the house in the bat light, and came in to a kitchen cozy with the welcoming scents of our dinner.

We always enjoy a good recap of the other’s day over supper, and Philip invariably gets a play-by-play of who I’ve talked to and what I’ve done and what I’ve been thinking as I’ve gone about my home duties. (He already knew I’d talked to Gretchen for he’d heard her voice on the answering machine!) I love these dinner talks, this acquainting of one another with the hours we’ve spent apart, and the long, rambling trails of ideas that usually stem from them. And afterwards the last cleaning of the day—the very smell of the rose countertop spray that I use makes me think somnolent thoughts—and the last polishing of the kitchen to greet me with a cheerful aspect in the morning. I really am a nut about leaving a clean kitchen behind me when I go to bed. I think it probably stems from the days when we were remodeling and I switched on the light in the mornings for eight months to bare sub-flooring and makeshift plywood countertops! I almost want to blow a kiss at my kitchen now, I love it so much, and it’s been nine years since the great overhaul!

Just a simple, homely day, nothing spectacular or particularly interesting, beyond the kitten my friend Ashley found in a potted plant in her backyard or the excitement of wrapping up a few last details of our upcoming trip to England or a package from L.L. Bean in the mail! But that was the beauty of it—just an ordinary day. As I was wiping the counters after supper and putting the last things away, I reflected that this was just the very kind of day that I used to imagine as a girl when I dreamed about my future. The life of wife and homemaker is very dear to me, and I consider it an honor and a joy to create a home that Philip wants to come back to at night. Not all Mondays are as simple and straightforward as this; candidly, most aren’t. But the ones that are serve to remind me with a quiet joy why I love what I have chosen to do with my life, and why I’d not change my place with that of a queen.

photography copyright Griffin Gibson 2009

The rest of the week…

• Tuesday in the Writing Life by Elisabeth
• Wednesday in North Idaho by Chantel
• Thursday at the Little Pink House by Gretchen (with series introduction)
• Friday in Sunny Southern California by Ashleigh
• Saturday at Castleberry Farms by Jeannie
• A Peek into Your Day by YLCF Readers

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

Mondays are our “day off”—meaning our family-owned and operated produce and antique store is closed.  Usually, I try to do laundry on Mondays—but this last Monday we were making a produce delivery to Town, and a trip to Town with a capital T always ends up taking an entire day, no matter how hard we try—especially being that we only make it there about once a month.  So this week I did laundry on Tuesday—it dried quickly, the weather warming more each day this week!  Wednesday found Dad and Marlys at Farmer’s Market as always, while Ruth and I helped Merritt open the store for the day.  And that brings us to today, Thursday, July 16, 2009…

Between our big Buff Orpington rooster and the little person kicking inside me, I usually wake up frequently from about four on each morning.  This morning, though, Merritt and I had both managed to fall back asleep until nearly seven-thirty.  At which point we began our day like we try to every morning: whichever of us is most awake prays, then Merritt gets up to feed the chickens (the rooster’s crow having intensified since 4 a.m.) and move irrigation pipe, while I relish a few more moments in bed, wishing (as I squint, my glasses being far from the bedside) that I kept a large print Bible on hand for early mornings.

When Merritt makes it out of our one-room house and off to work without Ruth awakening, I either steal a few more moments of sleep, pull on a sweatshirt to go water my sunflowers and herbs, or sneak outside with my laptop in hand to try to check email and read the day’s blog posts.  (Lately our next-door wireless “fast internet connection” has been reaching nearly to our front door, which has made keeping up on my internet to-do list much easier!)  This morning I opted for the laptop, and nearly finished writing a post for ylcf.org.

The house quiet, Ru slept in until eight-thirty.  Our night owl needed it after yesterday!  The first thing she usually does upon getting up is to stumble bleary-eyed to her high chair.  No cuddling, no potty—nothing until she’s eaten.  This morning was no exception.  We shared banana and cold cereal for breakfast.  Then Ru snuggled with Pooh Bear while Mommy got ready for the day.  Just about then, Merritt got home from moving irrigation pipe, ready to grab a quick bite of breakfast and go open the store.  Poor Daddy, with a pregnant wife and a growing daughter he rarely has company for breakfast when he’s changing pipe each morning!

The big “to-do” on my list today was going to town (town with a small t) to get our church directories printed.  Somehow it always takes a while to get out the door with Ruth, and this morning was no exception.  I ran back in the house at least three times, to grab cheese sticks, some board books, and her blankie—none of which one can go to town without!  (She already had her pink toy cell phone in hand so she was good to go on that account—a girl’s got to be just like Mom, you know!)

First we had to go over to Papa and Nanna’s to get a box to mail a wedding present to newlywed friends (congratulations to Garret and Melinda—wish we could have been there!).  When we got there, my sister-in-law Marlys decided she’d join us in our trip to town.  While I packaged up the box, Ruth begged some fresh fruit smoothie off her “Auntie Mouse,” but got more on her shirt than in her mouth.  Such things disturb my perfectionist daughter in the extreme!  When we finally got out to the store, her daddy wanted to know what all the crying was about that he’d heard on the telephone a few minutes earlier!  We gave him goodbye kisses, convincing Ruth we’d come back to work at the store later that day (as much as she likes to press the pink “Total” button that makes the cash drawer come out, we needed to get to town—and she was missing a shirt!).  A quick stop at home to grab a clean shirt for Ru, and we were finally on our way.

In addition to the print shop, our list included two banks, the post office, the library, the glass shop to get screen for our new screen door, the week’s sale items at the grocery store (orange juice and shredded wheat—plus the weekly purchase of 2 gallons of whole milk!), and then biding our time at the thrift stores until the church directories were read to pick up.  It was easy to spend extra time in town today because it is the week of the annual sidewalk sale.  However, I must admit, that very fact made me kiss my husband a few extra times before we left, and drive a little more carefully.

It was just three years ago, this same week in July, that Marlys and I came into town on Thursday to sell baskets at the sidewalk sale.  While we were in GoodWill today I heard the fire siren go off, and I couldn’t help myself—I grabbed my phone to call my husband.  But then I saw it was twelve o’clock.  The fire siren always goes off at noon, Gretchen! Later in the afternoon, though, it went off again, and soon the ambulance drove past.  Marlys and I looked at each other, knowing exactly what the other was thinking.  Three years ago, we’d watched that same ambulance drive down the same main street headed the same direction.  And three years ago, it had been going to get my brand-new husband, Marlys’ brother, after a welding accident on the farm shattered his leg and burnt his arm.  “I just talked to Mom and Dad, Gretchen, don’t worry,” Marlys reassured me today.

But I called Merritt anyway.  Just to hear his voice.  Just to know he was okay.  Some memories are still too fresh to handle that much deja vu. My hubby reassured me he’d hardly moved from his chair behind the counter at the store.  And I told him all about the finds we were making.  While my heart was quieted in thankfulness that he was still okay.

Marlys had found a maternity shirt for me at GoodWill—not on the maternity rack where I was looking, of course!  She’d noticed the “Bundle of Joy” tag on a shirt stuck right in with the regular shirts, and it fit me perfectly (not to mention being 50% off for the sidewalk sale!).  Then Marly hit the jackpot at the yarn store, finding enough sale yarn to make a sweater (just the thing one wants on a ninety-degree day like today!) and I found leftover greeting cards for 50 cents each, giving me ample opportunity to replenish my dwindling supply of birthday cards.

Quite done with our shopping, with a very tired and hot little girl, not to mention feeling rather tired and warm ourselves, we called the print shop.  But when they said to come back at two, they meant 2 p.m. sharp!  So with fifteen more minutes to kill we stopped in at the other thrift store.  I found a hardcover first edition of Born Free which I’m quite sure is worth at least the dollar I paid for it!

Our church directories finally in hand, we took Marlys back to her house then stopped at the store to see Merritt.   Ruth hand-delivered the apple fritter we’d bought him (he’d told us to get lunch if we needed it—aren’t apple fritters lunch?).  But the girl must be farm-raised, because she much preferred cherries to the doughnut!

As is the case more often than not in the midst of summer, lunch was quite late.  And since longtime family friend and now next-door neighbor Katie usually cooks dinner for us Wednesdays and Fridays (our Farmer’s Market days), most welcome as her help is, it leaves us with few leftovers in the fridge on Thursday!  Ruth ate mashed potatoes and cheese and nibbled on an onion.  I ate mashed potatoes, cheese, and some thin slices of sweet onion on top of two sliced tomatoes fresh from the farm garden.  Merritt got home by three—Marlys having grabbed a quick bite and gone out to the store to give him a break.  I fried up some summer squash to go with his potatoes—no danger of ruining his appetite for dinner this afternoon!

Then it was nap time for everyone.  Or at least so we told Ruth!  In a one-room house, it is hard to convince a little person to go to sleep when everyone else is up!  As soon as she’d finally started breathing evenly (after some dancing around on the mattress just to settle down after that stressful day in town—plus some standing on tip-toes to spy on Dad and Mom!), Merritt and I snuck outside to put a new screen in the wooden screen door he’d found at an auction a couple months ago and had all painted (red to match the chicken coop and soon-to-be-painted front door) and ready to go.  Putting in screen is more stressful than one might think, but we finally got it done without it breaking!

Merritt went back to close the store for the day.  I watered my herb garden, having noticed my sage wilting despite the soaking rain three days previous.  Then a certain little girl woke up from her too-short, too-late nap in rather sad spirits.  Our daily “best-laid plans” of having the house picked up, dishes washed, and dinner on the table when Daddy gets home from work went quite awry today.  I’d planned a light, no-bake dinner considering the late lunch.  But after Ru clung to me, having to sit on the counter next to the sink while I washed eggs (they always lay in “hen’s dozens” of eleven instead of baker’s dozens of thirteen!) and dishes (Ru was far past her usual trick of grabbing my legs to turn me around to face her instead of the sink!), I got the chicken pieces cooked up in soy sauce in the skillet, then threw them in the freezer to cool…and we sat down and read Pooh books until Daddy got home.

I chopped up the fresh bok choy while listening to a speed-read version of Eloise Wilkin’s Poems to Read to the Very Young. Ru turns the pages so quickly you only get about two lines of each poem read before it’s on to the next! Saving aside a few pieces of chicken for Ruth, I tossed the bok choy and chicken with some sesame dressing, sesame seeds, salt, and pepper, and we sat down to dinner.

While I did dishes, Ruth “helped” Daddy hang the screen door. (She thought she should write on the door just like Daddy had when he was marking where to screw the handle on!) Then we all came inside to cool down a bit with a bowl of ice cream. Merritt read from Frog and Toad Together—having appropriately landed on the story of Frog and Toad eating melting ice cream cones! Tonight Ruth decided that sharing ours wasn’t enough—she got out her own bowl (now in the bottom drawer where she can reach them—the original idea being that she’d learn to help set the table, but it has turned more into a way to ask for food without talking!) and opened the silverware drawer in obvious need of a spoon. After her bite’s worth was gone, she brought her bowl back to us showing its empty state. After one more bite, she proceeded to swirl the spoon around in the bowl to get a bit more flavor on it, then licking it and swirling it again!

All sticky with ice cream, Ru and her rubber ducky took their nightly shower, which cooled them both off considerably (at least Ru—I rather guess the ducky was cooler before the shower started!). Then Merritt headed out to change the irrigation in the alfalfa fields once again—a twice daily ritual for most of the summer (pretty much whenever he’s not cutting or baling those same fields!) that takes anywhere from two to four hours out of the day, depending on how it goes. Now I’m hoping that my too-tired little girl, fortified with a sip of milk, another hug, and covered once again with her blankie, will settle down to sleep before her daddy gets home—otherwise bedtime will be stretched out even later once again.

And I’m spending my evenings like I spend most of them—watching the fields to catch a glimpse of my husband, waiting to see the lights of his vintage truck driving home. Sometimes it’s in the hammock, sometimes it’s in this lawn chair catching a bit of an internet connection, sometimes it’s from the window. But always I’m thanking God for another day…another day with the ones I love…another day here in our little once-pink house…

Tomorrow brings us to Friday, the day we prepare our CSA boxes for pickup, and another Farmer’s Market. I’m sure I’ll be helping Merritt at the store a good part of the day, while Ruth takes a nap at Nanna’s and helps Aunt Marlys bake bread for the CSA boxes. Saturdays are a bit slower because we’re not scattered in so many directions—but the store is usually busier than ever. Then comes Sunday, the day of rest—it’s fellowship with the believers at church and then a Sunday afternoon nap before we start it all over again on Monday…

The rest of the week…

• Monday at the Farm in the City by Lanier
• Tuesday in the Writing Life by Elisabeth
• Wednesday in North Idaho by Chantel
• Friday in Sunny Southern California by Ashleigh
• Saturday at Castleberry Farms by Jeannie
• A Peek into Your Day by YLCF Readers

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

It stopped raining around 11:30.  My sisters and I rushed to the garden to pick the small amount of produce we’ve been able to grow so far this summer.  I really hadn’t planned to go — how embarassing to show up with four heads of lettuce! — but closer examination revealed that we also had spinach, onions, chives, mint, sage, parsley, and eggs, along with the baked goods.  Of course, everything outside was soaking wet and mud-splattered, so it had to be washed and drained before bagging.

I ran to the basement to make sure the eggs were ready to go.  Experience has taught me not to assume anything — like “each carton contains a dozen eggs” or “all the eggs were washed when they came in from the barn.”  No, to be on the safe side, I now not only open each carton, but I pick up and inspect each egg.  Dirty ones are cleaned, cracked ones are for the dog.  There were five dozen “market ready” eggs when I was finished.

Meanwhile, Betsy was making labels for her baked goods on the computer.  They looked both cute and professional.  Presentation is such a big part of a sucessful farmer’s market, and we try to make our table and goods as attractive as possible.  To those of you who shop at farmer’s markets, remember that none of this just happens.  It takes time to find the right basket to display the onions, to make the cute signs, and to price everything.

Ah, yes, pricing. Can you hear me groan from where you are?  Try pricing things that you haven’t bought for months (or in some cases, years!).  Make sure it’s a fair price, because you don’t want to overcharge your customers.  At the same time, you have to make sure you’re making a profit.  And don’t undercut the other growers, because they are your friends even if they are your competitors.  Oh, and do you sell things by the unit or by the pound? What if you don’t have a scale and have to weigh your produce on another vendor’s scale? Needless to say, the pricing is the worst part for me.

Finally everything was ready to go.  I ate a quick lunch, helped with the dishes, then began loading everything into the trusty (and rusty) minivan.  It’s actually a pretty long process.  “Did you get the spinach from the crisper drawer?” “Do you have a basket for the baked goods?” Slam, slam (that’s the screen door as I run in and out of the house with loads of stuff!). “Here’s the table cloth.” “Do you have the calculator and the price sheet?”  And then, just as I’m ready to go,  “Do you have change?” Change — how could I forget!? A quick scramble through everyone’s purses and the “change box” which was unfortunately just emptied and taken to the bank, but we did eventually find enough change.

So the next time you go to a farmer’s market, think about all the work that is represented there.  It’s even more than growing the produce! And be patient if the farmer has forgotten bags, or can’t find twisties for the bread, or has to borrow the next vendor’s scale.  But if the eggs are dirty, point it out.  And if you don’t know what to do with parsley, ask!  We love to talk to our customers.  And we love providing you with fresh, healthy produce.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

These past two years have been full of ‘firsts’ for me when it comes to gardens and orchards. Two years ago, passing by the Acheson’s farm which we have all come to know, thanks to Gretchen’s glimpses into life as a Farmer’s wife, I satisfied one little wish- to walk through a corn field. The corn was just as I expected, taller than me, and I do think one could get lost in a corn field, if they really wanted to.

Last year I saw, picked and ate a peach from a tree for the first time. And this was my first time in an orchard of any size, first time to pick a large quantity of fruit, first time to see cherries ripe on a tree. This Alaskan raised girl found what most people who have grown up picking and processing fruit until they have it coming out their ears find to be tedious and mundane, to be quite the thrill. And tree ripened cherries? They’re the best!

I think I could have spent a good long time just wandering through the orchard, taking pictures and admiring the beautiful way the trees are covered with fruit, and the fruit is shaded so well with the leaves, and just soaking it up. But the sun was only getting hotter, and we had a long drive ahead of us and apricots still to pick up in a totally different direction, so instead, we located some ladders (and learned not to turn our backs on them for an instant, or they’d “grow legs” and walk away!) and set to work.

We picked and we ate, and the hours past quite quickly- more quickly than our boxes filled,  though the trees were so loaded that I could stand in one place and fill the whole box up with out hardly moving! The day was complete with a few cherry bombings from above, while I worked on the lower branches, courtesy of my brother in law, Jared, and my mischievous husband. Oh, I can’t say that I didn’t join in a few skirmishes myself, for that matter, though, of course, I only tossed the bad ones back up.

But, in spite of hot sunshine and distractions here and there, at last the boxes did get filled, as did our tummies. And yes, we did pick more than we ate, for our boxes weighed in at just over 108 lbs, making our weight guessing as we picked just about right on. (You’d think Scott had experience in cherry picking, or something…)

The cherries weren’t all for us, or I do think we’d have cherries coming out of our ears two years from now, with just the two of us to consume them. 30 pounds went to another brother and sister in law and are headed to Montana today for more family up there. Some we gave away, some we sold to others who couldn’t go cherry picking, and this morning there were somewhere around 40 pounds in two boxes sitting on the counter waiting for my attention. Of course, I would forget to buy sugar and jar flats yesterday for canning, but in spite of only having the slowest kind of cherry pitter that is made (according to Scott, anyway), I am making progress and have managed to put quite a few quart bags in our little freezer. Space has become an issue, and I’m going to try to can a few quarts with the sugar and flats I do have, and tomorrow, my other sister in law, Alina, who came cherry picking with us, and I are having a joint canning effort, and will hopefully finish all of her cherries and mine, and perhaps, too, get some apricots done up.
I think a part of the fun of picking fruit and growing gardens is the amazing satisfaction it brings when you see your little stash for winter growing. Perhaps it is something built into us ladies that makes the hard work all worth it, but even if I can go down to Walmart and buy already canned goods, I still can’t think of much more enjoyable than doing it myself, or doing it with someone else who loves it as much as I do. In the mean time, we’re enjoying all the cherries we can eat, and thanking God that America still has some fruited plains from which we can harvest, and grow, and gather lessons and glimpses not only of His love, but be reminded of His promise that seed time and harvest will always be- no matter.

It’s another month or so until peaches are on in full swing, and I probably won’t get a chance to pick them, but I’m already looking forward to bringing home a few boxes, and stashing up on what, by then, will be my current favorite fruit of the season, just like the cherries and apricots are top on my list right now.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

I love Summer. It promises happy times–barefoot days, watermelon feasts and picnics, and it is the season to stock up on Fresh, for winter is coming.

One of my favorite things about summer, besides the clothesline, watermelon, sandals and picnics, is going to Farmer’s Markets. Twice, now, I’ve had the thrill of catching a glimpse of a small sign that told the time and gathering place for one of the most amazing opportunities of the season–the chance to support and to encourage the art of Farming.

Really, Farms and Farmer’s Markets had intrigued me from the time I was a child, and to see those wistful vision of  a tent-like village of stands and stands of a myriad of beautiful things made me giddy and feel as excited as a little girl again.

I love the produce stands. The colors and variety of fresh produce is tantalizing, from the freshly picked corn, to the bunches of basil, baskets of tomatoes and new potatoes and the Rocky Ford melons  and Palisade Peaches of Colorado. It really is a  paradise of color, texture and flavor, and I love to wander through the aisles, cloth bags in hand, and collect the week’s produce, fresh from the farm.

More often than not, you can get the best produce for prices you’d never find in the stores. And I can pretty much guarantee that it tastes so much better, that even if it wasn’t cheaper, it’s fresher, it is better for you–it would still be worth every penny.

Buying locally isn’t just about the fresh and the environment–it keeps the family farms going, and enables those who have the talent and ability to pass on to another generation the legacy of growing and sharing.

I can’t have a farm of my own right now, and I may not have the ability to make a difference in large ways, but I count it my little part–to support a cause I wholeheartedly believe is worth more of our attention.

America was a farming country, and it kept us strong. The hard work didn’t kill anyone. I rather think it saved more than one young person from evil that comes with idle hands and too much ease. We’re starting to lose that vision, and with more and more of our food being brought in from other countries, with sprays and poisons being more and more questionable, it’s time to go back to our roots, to growing our own food, and buying our own products once again. And it’s something I’m thrilled to have my chance to be a part of.

Of course, there’s a whole lot more than just farm products, and I have to say–that Pecan Brittle that the Woodland Park Colorado Farmer’s Market sold last summer was really one of the best sweet treats I’ve had, and that fresh baked European bread with pasta couldn’t be beat.

Not all of us are blessed with Farmer’s Markets, and not every Farmer’s Market has very much to offer. I wonder, though, if more of us didn’t make it a point to support and be a part of Farmer’s Markets across the country, if that wouldn’t change. And just maybe, if you look around, you’ll find your own little paradise in the  your town!

Check your local newspaper, ask around town, take a look at Local Harvest, an excellent farmer’s market resource, and see if there happens to be a u-pick farm or local market near you. And then, go and enjoy it. Remember, it’s first come, first get. Supplies are limited to what the Farmer brought in his truck and those who arrive early get the pick of the crop, so best to get there before the sun gets hot.

You might even want to take that “In Season Only” challenge, and create a seasonal menu using only ingredients found on your trip to the market. You could even take it a step further, and also choose only what’s produced within 100 miles of your front door, but that’s a challenge not to take lightly if you live in the Colorado Rockies, at least.

And if you’ve never really explored the world of freshly grown produce, and have pretty much stuck to the what’s familiar, take a little step out of comfort zone and try something new if you can find it, and if you don’t know what to do with it, ask the Farmers! They may be able to give you a few tips and you may discover you’ve got a new favorite. That’s how I discovered that I should have been a melon farmer.

So, this summer, you’ll find me at my local Farmer’s Market, reveling in the beauty of fresh, beautiful fruits and veggies, stocking up on local produce–and trying not to find any more peanut brittle–thanking God that we still can buy locally grown, locally made. It’s the best way.

Photo of Craig Harding, Summer 2003, after a stop to our very first “real” roadside produce stand on the edge of a farm in North Carolina. That first farm fresh watermelon and the cantelopes and onions we bought didn’t last long at all.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

by Gretchen Acheson

Chick Day.  Our local feed store has three “Chick Days” each spring.  Everyone from moderate-scale chicken farmers to backyard poultry keepers place their orders weeks in advance.  The hatcheries make sure to have just the right number of eggs ready to hatch out the day before chick day.  And when the little fluffy guys and gals show their pretty little heads outside the eggs, they are boxed up and mailed overnight to our feed store.  The nutrition that was in their egg yolk keeps their tummies from growling until the time we pick them up, take them home, dip their beaks in water, and give them all the food they will eat.  It’s a pretty amazing process.  But we have a pretty amazing Creator Who designed the baby chicks!

This year we had the feed store save us eighteen Barred Rock Pullets (pullets are hens-or female chicks).  Last year we bought mostly Red Sexlink Pullets (”sexlink” means they are bred so that the boys are one color, the girls another, for easy gender identification of baby chicks).  We plan to cycle through our favorite breeds every few years, buying a different breed each year, so we know which birds are older and need to be culled out without having to band them (put a “bracelet” on one of their legs) or guess at their age.

But we never can stick with just one breed.  Our customers like green eggs, so we bought four Araucana Pullets this year (our Ameraucanas didn’t winter too well, so we thought we’d try the other green egg layers).   And those Silver Laced Wynadottes were just too cute.  Four of those pullets came home with us as well.  Which made for an even two bakers’ dozens of baby chickens!  At least we got out of the feed store without the rabbit Ruth Ann was squealing in delight over.  She was excited enough about the chicks themselves to scare the poor things half to death.

Our little babies have spent the last week in a feed bin, protected by chicken wire, warmed by a heat lamp, with a blanket over the top for extra insulation against our cold nights.  We’re still working on ideas for a brooder we can use year after year.  At least now we have a shed where their temporary home can reside!  Last spring it was so cold our baby chicks hung out in the middle of my kitchen for their first week of life.  Between the hungry, peeping chicks and the hungry, crying baby girl I didn’t get any sleep!

Yes, a brooder house is going to be a project for another spring-the shed area we park our cars has been ample protection for the chicks this spring.  Meanwhile Merritt has been making all sorts of modifications to our “Chick Inn“-the latest is slanting the bottom of the laying boxes so that the eggs roll down into a covered area where we can retrieve them but the chickens can’t.  Not only does this help with the egg eating problems that rear their ugly heads once in a while when the hens get too bored, but the best part is that in our muddy springs and autumns the eggs still stay relatively clean-because as soon as they are laid, they slide away into safety!

And the chicks aren’t the only signs of spring activity here on the farm.  The chives in my herb garden are already several inches tall-or were, before the hens got to them.  The rhubarb is poking up its curly head.  And I could nearly use the parsley if I wanted to!  My amazing, hard-working husband is building me a pretty little fence around my herb garden this spring, too-now that it is at its permanent location next to our new shed.  The wire is smaller at the bottom so the hens won’t get to my herbs-yet tall enough to keep out the deer who have already trimmed my Sweet Williams and Primroses!

Today when we replaced the wood shavings in the bottom of the chicks’ tub, Ru took turns kissing each of the baby chicks (though sometimes it looked more like she was just smelling them-what did my grown-up nose miss?!).  After she petted the soft feathers on one of our week-old chicks she reached up and patted her own fuzzy head.  We never cease to be amazed at all the correlations she makes at just 16 months old.  I s’pose next year she’ll be able to take care of the baby chicks all by herself, just from helping Daddy this year.

But right now, my farmer is out harrowing our field, and Ru was promised a ride before bedtime.  So off we go to meet Daddy for Ruth’s first tractor ride…

by Lanier Ivester

I’ll never forget the first brood of chicks we brought home. Never ones to waste time becoming experts before we jump in with both feet, Philip and I went to the local feed and seed on a whim one Monday morning and brought home the last ten Rhode Island Reds they had. I had no idea how adorable they would be, or how my maternal instincts would kick in at the sound of all that helpless peeping coming from the cardboard box in which they spent their first 24 hours in our household on top of the washing machine. The cramped quarters and the prowling cats below called for immediate action, however, and the next night saw us constructing a wooden frame brooder, encased with poultry netting, that we could keep in the basement. This brooder has served us well over the eight years that we have kept hens—although, like Gretchen, I’ve sometimes lost sleep over all the restless little happy noises coming from right below my bed!

A new brood of chicks is one of the sweetest signs of spring to me, and though most of my motherly neurosis has been calmed with time and experience, there is always such a sense of responsibility and awe that these lovely, vulnerable creatures are entirely dependent on me for their lives and safety. I will never forget the night, several Aprils ago, when one of our famously-violent spring storms ripped through, sending us to an inner closet with Caspian and the cats until the tornado sirens had wailed their last. Then, creeping out in the eerie stillness after wind and hail, groping around in the darkness for matches and candles and flashlights and counting cats and moaning over storm-rent flowers, I suddenly caught the sound of a faint peeping, timid at first, then rising to a shrill note of distress. We ran down to the basement to find all the babies huddled in a heap, limp and listless from the rapid temperature change and the loss of heat from the lamps they depended upon for warmth. Scooping them all into an old portable wooden brooder, we carted them upstairs and placed them on the hearth in our bedroom. Philip built a fire and I tended it all night, waking every time the chirping complaint started up again to stoke up the coals and add another log. In the morning they were all comfortably asleep, with their little heads all stretched out between the slats of the brooder towards the waning warmth of the fire. Fortunately our power came back on, for we were completely out of firewood!

This spring we moved the brooder to the barn, into the stall Philip has fitted out as a hen house. (Fort Poulet, the legendary domain of Ivester hens has been decommissioned as of last fall.) And there the babies reside with the big girls and Margot the rooster all clucking disinterestedly about them. Truthfully, the sheep have been much more curious than anyone else, owing to the fact, perhaps, that the chicks are their new next-door neighbors. For the first day they all stood in their stall and stared—as only sheep can—at these strange little interlopers. It’s given even more life to our old barn, to have the sweet noises of baby chicks blending with all the baa-ing and bleating and hay-munching and crowing. And only one incident thus far: it’s been a long time since I’ve raised chicks with outside cats, and, stupid me, I completely misinterpreted Maudie’s fascination as the general interest everyone showed when I brought the chicks into the barn with a regular parade of sheep and dogs and goats in tow. I hadn’t stepped out of the stall for a moment—with the lid to the brooder safely closed—when I heard one of my Buff Orpingtons peeping in alarm. Dropping the waterer I was filling, I raced back to find that Maudie, with a lightning-flash dart of her sleek black paw through the poultry netting, had snagged one of them. I was so horrified that I didn’t know what to do at first, just standing there in the stall with the tiny, frightened creature in my hands. She was definitely in shock, and so with one of those desperate prayers for help and wisdom, I performed a little chick first aid. I set her up on the kitchen counter in the box I’d brought her home in, with a heat lamp clipped to the cabinet overhead and a little food and water. Thankfully, after a few hours she was perfectly fine, preening and pecking and scratching in that funny little imitation of the big hens that chicks have, so I was able to take her back to the barn to join her sisters again.

We were only going to get eight this year. Don’t ask me how we walked out with thirteen. But those little Buff Orpingtons were so sweet, and, of course, I had to have four each of the Rhode Island Reds and the Araucanas! (The former for old time’s sake and the latter because I have become so enamored with those blue and green eggs I just don’t think I could do without them.) And what’s a brood without a few Barred Rocks, those docile, dependable layers? That makes twenty-six in all—so many that my livestock guardian dogs Juno and Diana have started to look askance at me, as much as to say, “Um, how many charges are written into our contracts?”

In other spring news, it’s garden season again! Our spring comes on earlier than Gretchen’s, but I did manage to reign in my excitement at mid-seventy degree weather a few weeks ago and wait until the prescribed middle of April to put out my summer vegetables. Squash, eggplant, zucchini, peppers, cucumbers and pole beans (my favorite!) all made it into the manure-rich (compliments of Puck and Pansy) soil this Saturday, and my tomatoes will go out later this week. It’s a season of industry and excitement around here—and a never-ending to-do list. But lest the everyday miracles of budding roses and blooming irises and a flower garden waking up from a long winter’s nap go unnoticed in all the flurry, my husband is good to take my hand and slow me down for a bit with a little ramble through the woods to admire the bluebells we planted last fall or the almost mystical reappearance of the mayapples under the oak trees.

Oh, and why, you might ask, is my rooster named Margot? Well, both the hatchery and the feed store from which we get out chicks each spring have an unwritten guarantee that all the chicks are female. Margot wasn’t.

And for the record, Gret, Ruth’s on to something. The chicks do smell very sweet and feathery. There’s nothing quite like a nose-full of warm, peeping down for happiness!

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

What about the washing? Before dirty clothes are ready to hang on the line, they have to be washed first. In my world, clothes come in dirty. Two little boys can get dirty without trying, especially while reveling in the glorious mud of spring. My husband’s clothes meet the worst in his line of work in all seasons: cow manure, calf scours, diesel fuel, blue grease, gasoline, hydraulic oil, and, last but not least, dirt. My neighbor has told me that her mother-in-law once asked how she got her husband’s clothes clean, and his reply to her was, “She uses good soap.” It works. The only thing I can add to that is: use good soap and plenty of it.

Put liquid soap directly on the worst spots and let it soak in for 12-24 hours before washing. Add a product such as Borax or Oxi-Clean to cloth diapers to help eliminate odors. Add Oxi-Clean to any heavily soiled load. Soak food or blood stains in white vinegar; add ammonia to the”work clothes” load to help take out the grease and grime. Run the diapers for an extra rinse to be sure to get all the soap out; do the same for any load you pre-treated with extra soap.

Okay, so how soon will it be warm enough to hang the clothes on the line? I can’t say how soon–we’ve another blizzard in the forecast–but I can give you Mom’s rule of thumb for determining when to hang that first load outside. She made us wait until the thermometer said fifty degrees (Fahrenheit). Her reasoning? That’s approximately the temperature at which clothes will dry in one day, if you get them out early enough in the morning. If you don’t mind leaving them out overnight, you can hang them out in cooler weather. I have even hung clothes out in below freezing weather, but you’ve got to be either desperate or tough or crazy, or all three. My wringer didn’t take as much water out of the clothes as an automatic washer with a spin cycle, so allowing them to freeze-dry before hanging them indoors significantly reduced the puddles on the floor.

Mom’s only exception to her rule was for diapers. She wanted them sunbleached, regardless of whether they had any chance of drying or not. Once or twice each week, no matter the temperature, no matter if the diapers froze stiff before I pinned them to the line, the diapers went out. When I went out again to pull the clothespins off and unbend the stiff pieces of cloth from the wire, all but the worst stains were gone. After clunking round and round in the dryer for awhile, eventually softening and drying, we had a stack of snowy white diapers to return to the shelf. If, “Dewbleaching works wonders,” according to Mrs. Rachel Lynde, sunbleaching works better than Clorox.

One other factor to keep in mind: the wind. Maybe the wind doesn’t blow much where you live, but here in South Dakota I can pretty well count on the wind blowing when I hang clothes out. The wind will either take the wrinkles out, or put them in, depending on how you hang the clothes and how hard it’s blowing. The wind will either be your best aide, or else create chaos on your clothesline! Sometimes I question my sanity in trying to hold out against a twenty-five mile an hour wind with mere clothespins. There are days when I wonder if my clothes will end up in the next county, or at least in the neighbor’s fence, before they dry. I shove the pins down hard, well past the open place in the jaw, and if the wind is blowing really hard, I fold things like sheets smaller, so they have less surface area for the wind to catch.

As a general rule, the way you hang your clothes is the way they will dry. Fold sheets in half, then pin the open edges to the line, with the fold hanging down. Hang shirts by the hem, unless it’s very windy. In that case, or if you don’t have enough room on your clothesline, hang them by the collars. Hang jeans and skirts by the waist. Hang socks by the toe end–they dry fastest this way. Dishtowels can be folded in half vertically to save line space, if necessary. One other rule I always follow: hang delicate items somewhere on the line where they will not be immediately obvious to the passing world.

Hanging things in this way will allow the wind to shake the wrinkles right out of the clothes, leaving them soft and smooth. The sheets will already be folded in half, the shirts won’t need ironing, and if you fold things as you take them down, they won’t get wrinkled in the basket! Of course, there are the days when the wind is blowing hard, and the shirts get all wrapped around the line, and the jeans get jerked off into the grass, and the socks bunch together, and the best laid plans o’ mice and men and housewives “gang all a’gley.” But so be it. I unwind the tangles, shake the grass off the things that fell down, drape the things that are still damp over the back of a kitchen chair, and enjoy the fresh smell of the clothes anyway.

The smell? Well, it’ll make your labors all worthwhile. Your clothes will smell of spring air, of summer sunshine, of fall frosts. These beat any scented dryer sheets or fabric freshener all hollow. There’s nothing quite like crawling into a bed newly made up with clean sheets that smell like a prairie wind.

So, go for it! Hang out the washing! May your children say, every spring, what a former pastor’s kids said one spring many years ago: “Oh, Mom, now we get to have clean sheets again!”

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

Ah, springtime… Geese flying, calling across the morning sky; brighter sunshine; longer days; balmy winds; mud underfoot; little rivers running down, down, down, carrying winter away with them. Two days ago, I was walking across the pasture bareheaded, my two small boys tagging along and my baby on my back, watching the creek run. That night another blizzard blew in: now I am listening to the wind howl and the snow beat against the windows and the furnace run, and hoping my husband is succeeding in his attempts to get each calving cow into the barn before she drops her new calf into the snow. March is definitely not coming in like a lamb this year.

No matter how it has come, or how it goes, March is certainly going, and quickly. In a few more days, the calendar will tell me that spring has come, even if the weather fitfully disputes the case for another month or two. The sun is higher, nearer, and the winter cannot hold out against it for too much longer. Soon, I’ll find a day warm enough to dry clothes on the line again. I’m looking forward to pulling off my socks and hauling a heavy basket of wet clothes out inthe warm sunshine, wrestling the sheets against the wind, shoving the pins down hard, and hoping things stay put ’till they dry.

Few of my household tasks are as pleasant as hanging the washing out for the first time each spring. Yes, I am a country girl; first a farmer’s daughter, now a rancher’s wife. I love hanging out the washing. I’ve done it in all weathers. One of my earliest memories is that of hanging my Raggedy Ann’s aprons and dresses on the clothesline while my mother hung out the washing. I have no idea how it was constructed, but I remember a line just my height strung below Mom’s clothesline.

If, perhaps, you are a stranger to this task, whom marriage, moving, a tightening budget, or a spring breeze has suddenly got you wondering where to start, here are a few things I’ve learned along the way:

What do you do with a pile of wet clothes if you have no clothesline? Find a fence line! As a new bride, I learned first how to run an old wringer washer, then how to improvise on a clothesline. It was nine months before Ben put up our first clothesline; one he’d bought for a few dollars at an auction sale. (“They’re pretty cheap folks if they even pull up and sell the clothesline when they move away,” was his comment, but he bought it for me.) In the meanwhile, he had strung some lines inside, which I used when the weather was bad. When the weather was good, I hated to hang things indoors, where they didn’t dry very quickly, so I went hunting. I learned that heavy duty cattle panel fencing works marvelously well for a clothes rack, being sturdy and of narrow enough gauge that the clothespins fit. Woven wire worked too, although it sagged worse, but woe to me if my clothes blew over against a strand of barbed wire! This method is also contraindicated by the presence of calves, sheep, goats, or other livestock on the other side of the fence.

It’s probably far more practical to just build a clothesline. If possible, locate a spot in your yard that is sheltered from the wind and not too far from your washing machine. Find two tall sturdy posts and set them about twenty feet apart. Six inch diameter posts nine to ten feet long–you’ll want at least three feet below the ground and six feet above the–are ideal. Next you will need two cross pieces to bolt to the wood posts. Look for two pieces of heavy angle iron or 3/8 inch steel approximately five feet long. These cross arms will need holes drilled in them (at least a foot apart) corresponding to the number of wires you want to string. Bolt these at the tops of your posts, parallel to each other, about five and a half feet off the ground, or at whatever height is comfortable for you to reach and sufficiently high to keep your clothes from dragging in the dirt. Next take a roll of galvanized nine gauge wire and string it between the posts. Pull each wire tight, and you have a clothesline! You can probably buy some sort of ready made contraption to take the place of the cross arms and the number nine wire, but I’ll wager it won’t be as sturdy.

Now that you’ve built your line, you need a way to keep wet clothes on it until they dry–preferably until you take them off again. I’ve known clothespins in two forms; those made of a single piece of wood, in the shape of a little man without arms, and those made of two pieces of wood and a metal spring that holds the jaws shut. Make sure that you buy clothespins made of hardwood, and if you buy the spring-type, make sure the spring is strong. Before hanging any clothes on the line, make sure all the wires are taught. A saggy wire will sag much worse with a heavy load of wet clothes weighing it down, and clothes on a saggy wire will tend to slump together and not dry well.

When stringing your wires, keep your helpers in mind. One of my delights of motherhood are the little hands of my children handing me clothespins and socks. Even before they could walk, they could sit on the ground beside the basket, or on a rug, if the ground were cold or damp, and hold the bag of pins, reaching in to pull them out for me one or two at a time. Do you know how many useful lessons are in this simple task?

As soon as they could walk, they were trying to help hang the socks and other small articles on the line. I didn’t have a low line strung just for them; instead, my clothesline was set on a sidehill, so that the northernmost line was only about three feet off the ground where it sagged in the middle, while the southernmost line was above my head. That sag in the line broke a cardinal rule of good clothes hanging, but it enables my little ones to help–something I value far more than a perfect clothesline!

To be continued…

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

Needless to say, we have sturdy fences in place, which we inspect regularly, as vital to keep intruders out as to keep the sheep in. And I would never—not in a million years, not for love or money—ever consider letting them so much as out of the barn without their big fluffy white babysitters, Juno and Diana. These Great Pyrenees dogs are the guardian angels of my little flock, the stouthearted sentinels that are on duty round the clock, day in and day out. They patrol the fence lines in an unwearying round of duty, and often can been seen stretched out in the pasture, in a position of alert repose, with sheep and goats grazing peacefully around them. That is a sight to warm the heart, and invariably invokes a little prayer of thanksgiving from me, and an appeal for blessings on the heads of these beautiful girls of mine.

Juno and Diana can spot an intruder a mile off. A neighboring bark can startle them out of a nap—affectionately known around here as a Pyr-pile—in a heartbeat. Several times Diana has jumped the fence, off after an unknown marauder, only to return hours later (or the next day!) with a big, goofy grin on her otherwise aristocratic face and a lolling tongue, as much as to say, “How’d I do, Mom?”

I have something of the same feeling towards the girls of YLCF as my guardian dogs do about their charges. I am very wary of the terrain they must traverse. From a perspective of years, I am all too acquainted with the dangers that may very well lay ahead, attractive lures and dainties that might prove charming enough to tempt them off the path that their Shepherd has ordained for them. And while I do not affect to the role of protection and guidance that only their Shepherd can provide, I do feel the burden of love to warn of possible threats.

To bark at a few marauders, if you’ll pardon the expression.

Many of you are at an age where you are considering marriage. Some of you are in a place to consider a specific person. You might be wondering just how sure you really can be of a potential mate. You may be so misty-eyed with love that your rose-colored glasses need a slight polishing. Whatever your unique position, I would like to offer a little heart-felt advice: Never allow yourself to judge a man by appearances alone. Things are not always what they seem. All that glitters is not gold.

One of the most horrifying scenes I have encountered in literature (at the risk of spoiling a rather decent book) is from Daphne DuMaurier’s Jamaica Inn, when the benighted young heroine realizes that the parish priest in whom she has been confiding all her suspicions and fears, the only one she feels safe in running to when real danger arises, is himself the root and originator of the evil she so much dreads. It gives me cold chills even as I write to remember the unveiling of that wolf in sheep’s clothing. Listen, ladies: there is a reason our Lord used that analogy. There is a reason that a wolf slipping in among a flock in disguise is so horrifying. It is the very ploy of the devil himself. And the devastation that can result is nothing less than tragic.

It is very easy for a man to talk the talk. (It’s easy for a girl, too, but that is another post.) In this day and age, with the more obvious dangers highlighted on the screen, it is easy for a man to slip under the radar with a few good books under his belt and a nice arsenal of Scripture on his tongue. He may even have a resume of good works to tout—but believe me, if he’s touting them, that’s a serious red flag. So are high-flown loyalties to non-essential convictions. I’m telling you, the more particular a man is in obscure observances of remote principles, the more likely he’s “lost connection with the Head”, which is Christ. (Colossians 2: 18, 19)

That’s not to say that no man of genuine conviction deserves the opportunity to try and win your heart. But the proof of the pudding is revealed when the man and his works are held up under the blinding scrutiny of the Word of God. From Galatians 6 alone: Is he loving—not just towards you, but towards all people? Is he joyful, or just in a good mood when you’re around? Is he good—that is to say, does he desire what is holy, pure and true, whether he wins your affections in the end or not? Is he faithful? Gentle? Does he have the ability to control himself? (Incidentally, this last one will probably be the most easily-observable to you once you are in a relationship. Either he can or he can’t. And there is a great gulf betwixt the two. Revere the former. Flee from the latter.)

I don’t see a lot about good looks and dashing demeanors in this list. Though it’s not exhaustive, I think it safe to say there’s nothing there—or in any other Biblical accounting of true godliness—that points to the worth of working for this ministry or that organization. Believe me, ladies—that’s not good enough. The stakes are too high for a pure-hearted woman of God in this world to settle for appearances alone. And the kind of girls that frequent this site are just the kind of girls that a wolf in sheep’s clothing would delight to devour. I’m not saying this to scare you or to make the marriage terrain appear even more impossible to navigate than it is. Far from it. For when you learn to look upon the heart, when you train and saturate yourself with the ideal of the good, and safeguard those ideals with the wisdom of parents, the insight of godly, and admittedly less cow-eyed, friends, and the ultimate perception of the Word, you can walk this mine field without fear.

To Be Continued. . .

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

Dreams carried around in one’s heart for years, if they are dreams that have God’s approval, have a way of suddenly materializing.

And I can definitely say that this has been a Spring of ‘sudden materialization’. So sudden I feel I’ve hardly had a chance to catch my breath before one beautiful change follows on the heels of another. Spring itself is a season of change, of course: new things stirring to life; old, spent growth disappearing under the inexorable greening of bud and leaf and blade. Here in the South our Spring flirts for a while, courting us with balmy days in mid-February and then turning a diffident shoulder of frost and gloom again till one hardly knows whether to trust in the promise of April or not. But there can be no doubt on this gentle afternoon, soft with the sweet pale haze of awakening trees and scented with apple blossoms: Spring has really arrived. And with it, a fine crop of heart’s desires.

Ever since Philip and I set up housekeeping here on our farm-in-the-city we have dreamed about the animals we’d love to welcome and raise. That is, in addition to our five cats, fourteen hens, rooster and best-Australian-Shepherd-in-the-whole-wide-world. We’d entertained the notion of cows because Philip’s grandfather had been a cattleman and we wouldn’t be so completely in the dark. Highland Cattle received more than a passing consideration, owing to the fact that one of the shining points of our vision is promoting historical or endangered breeds. We installed good, sturdy fencing and sketched out a plan for our barn, an original structure and sorely in need of renovation. We started scrutinizing the Market Bulletin for animals and supplies. We entertained our Aussie with glowing descriptions of his life as a real farm dog. And then everything began to slow to a halt. For a couple of years, something always seemed to waylay the plan: trips and travels, droughts, sprained ankles, surgeries, unexpected expenses. I really began to wonder at times if it wasn’t just a pipe dream after all.

Since Christmas, however, my heart has been stirring on this theme more ardently than ever, and towards the end of January I determinedly ordered a whole box of books on farming and livestock. And thus it was that Philip came home one day and found a lovely volume lying on the kitchen table: Living with Sheep.

I came upon him after he’d been reading it for a while, leaning against the counter, completely engrossed in the engaging text and gorgeous photographs, very much as I had been not a few hours before. He looked up at me with shining eyes.

“Let’s get sheep!”

I blinked back at him as if it were the first time it had occurred to either one of us. As if we hadn’t started dreaming about it on the first day of our Scottish honeymoon. As if we hadn’t longed for it as an unattainable wish all throughout our sojourn in England. Truth is, we’d been scared off by our own ignorance, not to mention the simple fact that we didn’t know of a single other person in Georgia that raised sheep. And for a super-cautious, obsessive-compulsive little soul like me, that spelled terrifying, no matter how much I wanted it.

But suddenly, standing there in the kitchen, grinning back at my husband, I knew that we could do this. That old familiar flame of aspiration began to glow and spark within me; Philip’s eager enthusiasm sealed the deal. God’s timing on this dream seemed to materialize right there between us. And so I devoted much of the month that followed to reading and educating myself, talking to shepherds on the phone, emailing like mad—basically scratching up all the information I possibly could. And literally, within the span of a few short weeks, we went from the germ of a dream to the cusp of fulfillment. Through an intensely exciting series of events—interesting only to me, I am sure—I made the discovery of a marvelous breed of sheep native to our area, historically important from a heritage point of view and remarkably hardy and tolerant of our climate due to hundreds of years of ranging feral in the Southern fields and forests. A flurry of emails, a frenzy of waiting—and, suddenly, six lambs, yet unborn, had my name on them. Quite an honor when you consider that there are only around 2000 registered such animals in existence!

It’s in the details that I know my God is in this, and blessing this dear, crazy undertaking. I’ve seen Him guide and provide in countless ways—I could fill several posts with the recounting but I’ll spare you!—and I know that He’s working out some purpose of His, even if it’s only the stretching of my own faith. I’ve been forced to trust Him at every turn—the path we’ve set our feet to is uncharted territory, and there’s a very scared little girl deep down inside of me that shrinks from change of any sort, even that for which I’ve longed and prayed. But it has been so endearing to see how He cares about these dreams of ours; how He plants such lovely and challenging goals in our hearts and then provides all we need to attain them. Even when we’re cowering in the folds of His garments like frightened lambs ourselves.

This time last year I was becoming an expert on punting options in Oxford and driving distances to obscure literary places of pilgrimage preparatory to our journey abroad. This Spring I am a connoisseur of pasture grasses and organic fertilizer options, having our soil tested and discussing the results at length with our extension agent, and basically betraying my ignorance to every clerk at every Feed and Seed north of Savannah. It’s been very humbling, and I can’t tell you all how many times I’ve had to swallow my pride and say, “I have a really dumb question…”. But my prayer this April is the same as it was a year ago: The Lord grant you the desire of your heart and make all your plans succeed.

My lambs come home in May; the two little bottle baby Nubian goats that Philip promised me are sleeping out in the barn with their tummies full of warm milk; the lovely, majestic Great Pyrenees dog we brought home to be a livestock guardian is patrolling her barnyard and lingering by the fence for loving words and ear scratches. Down in the basement a host of newly-potted starts are dreaming of a whole garden to grow in, and out in the yard roses and grapevines and brambles are sending forth tender, tentative growth in prelude to an absolute explosion of fruit and flower. Even the hens are clucking among themselves of the new quarters we’ve promised them in the barnyard…

Change is sweeping, and it’s good, for the Lord is good. There will be a lot to adapt to in the coming weeks and months, but soon these changes will seem as if they have always been and new changes will be looming. Through every change He faithful will remain…

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

One glance at my inbox full of emails (checking email once every week or so makes it impossible to catch up!), and I know I’ll never get each one responded to in kind before the advent of this precious kicking child. So if you’ve emailed us, please forgive the lack of response–we do love reading all your news. But we’ll have to catch you up on the latest around here in this slightly more mass mode of communication… As to the all-important baby news–keep an eye out at ylcf.org for the official announcement of the arrival of the newest Acheson (with an email to follow at some later date when Mommy has nothing else to do!). (Ultrasound from September.)

To answer all the usual questions, Baby’s official due date is Pearl Harbor Day. No, we’re old-fashioned–we’re going to be surprised as to whether Baby is a he or a she. And names? That’s been a bit more difficult to decide (and one does have to see one’s child before you know for sure), but you’ll find out in the birth announcement. (Picture at left: 32 weeks.)

On our arrival back to home sweet home we welcomed my mom, her parents, and my youngest siblings. It’s always good to have family come visit (especially when they help clean up the garden for the year like Papa and Caleb did!), and hopefully this new little member of the family will entice more of you to make the trip to come see us! It was extra-special to have my mom, grandma, and sister here for the baby shower our church ladies gave us. We are so very blessed in our family and friends…

An update from us would not be complete without thanking each and every one of you for your prayers for Merritt’s leg. He had a doctor appointment last week, and the x-rays showed that after a year and three months, the gaps in the leg bones are finally filling all the way in–no bone grafts necessary! We are so thankful. And now those great big calcium bumps at the breaks should start going down, too. The doctor didn’t know why Merritt still doesn’t have all the movement back in his ankle, but none of us are anxious for surgery to take the rod out of the smaller bone just to see if that would help. So when you think of it, you can pray that Merritt’s ankle will be restored to somewhere nearer its former flexibility (though it is kind of handy to be able to outrun my husband!). And praise God for the healing power He gave our bodies…

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

The last of the planting is nearly finished. And the weeding has already commenced. The potatoes were easy to weed. But the beets! If we could charge for the hours it actually takes us to weed the beets and carrots, they would be worth their weight in gold.

Our little antique store is open five days a week now, so that has been a nice “break” for me after all the long days of planting. At least I can sit down–and even get some reading done in between customers.

I only have a moment, but I wanted to ask y’all to pray for Merritt on the morning of May 30th. The doctor is going to remove the screw right below Merritt’s knee, in hopes that it will put enough pressure on the bone to allow it to finish healing that little gap that’s still there at the break. Lord willing it will be a very minor, brief surgery, but he does have to be heavily sedated. Please pray that all goes well, for continued healing, and that this surgery won’t keep him out of commission for long. He’s hoping to cut our alfalfa field the week after surgery!

Thank you so much for your continued prayers. I’ll write again soon… God bless y’all.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

It’s my favorite time of year. We have cool evenings, crisp mornings, and bright, sunshiny days. Here on the farm, that means the produce is slowing down, after a frost or two. And one of my favorite veggies is just here—winter squash! It’s one of the yummiest wintertime side dishes, along with potatoes—when I’m home to cook, that is. I love working with my husband, but it does make having dinner ready for him when he comes home an impossibility (until I learn to be in two places at once). That’s why I’m thankful to be married to a patient man who helps me with the dishes.

Thursday marked eight weeks since Merritt’s welding accident. And Lord willing, on Monday the doctor will say Merritt can get rid of the crutches and start putting weight on his left foot. He seems to be more excited about his doctor’s appointment than his birthday this year, as I keep having to remind him about the latter. Having been born six days apart, we have fun celebrating our birthdays together. We met in September, too (ten whole years ago!)—which just might be why it’s our favorite month of the whole year.

Here’s wishing you all a splendiferous weekend…and many happy returns of the day to my beloved husband!

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

Two little bundles of furry energy showed up with my family. My sister Jessica gave up the last two babies from the most recent litter, so now we have kittens! They even came complete with water dish, food dish, and a bag of cat food. It gives one a rather old married feeling, to not only have plants and a bird feeder, but cats, as well.

The reticent, cautious, serious kitten we named Jeeves. He has a black coat with white collar, gloves, and boots. His brother, however, has a wild pattern of every shade of black and gray, and his personality matches it. Wooster is the one who comes running when I call, who dashes into the house whenever the door is open a crack, and who gets to eat all the scraps of meat from dinner, because Jeeves was too wary to come near. So far, however, Jeeves has shown a more natural bent to hunting—or maybe it is just that he takes it seriously. His trophy of Tuesday night was a grasshopper—which he promptly ate in its entirety.

The pair keep us laughing, when they turn on the motion sensor light at night, and jump up on the woodpile to peer through the kitchen window. When the sun has set and I’m supposed to be doing dishes, Merritt will often go sit on the mat outside the front door and play with them. Somehow, the dishes take twice as long those nights, as I go back and forth from dishes, to kissing my husband, to seeing what the kitties are doing now. Thanks for the kittens, Jessica.

A hint of fall is in the air, and it’s getting darker much earlier at night. The woodpile out front is soon going to be needed for more than just the kittens’ playground, so we’re searching the papers every week for a small but good wood stove. We’ve been eating nectarines for breakfast, making peach cobblers and crisps, and even a blueberry pie with the berries my family brought up. But the first of the apples are here now, and I’m looking forward to making my grandmother’s apple cake for Merritt to try, and maybe even venturing to try that old-fashioned apple tart recipe that was in my sister-in-law’s copy of Gourmet. But this morning, yesterday’s dishes are calling my name, and I need to make some Blueberry Buckle to serve the friends we have stopping in today. First of all, however, I will go give my husband a good morning kiss, and find out what he wants for breakfast.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

Hours later, I was holding my husband’s hand in a hospital room, waiting for the doctor to come get him for surgery. Just four weeks ago today.

Now, it seems normal for Merritt to be hopping around the house like a Narnian “Dufflepud” on one leg. (He doesn’t recommend carrying a cup of flour across the kitchen floor in such manner, however.) I won’t know what to do when my husband’s off his crutches and able to chase me when I tease him. And I’ve rather gotten used to bringing him breakfast in bed, dinner in his recliner. Some traditions, I suppose, we’ll have to continue.

But in many ways, life seems little different than it was four weeks ago. Everything still takes longer because Merritt can’t help me as much. And he doesn’t have to be out irrigating early in the mornings, so we can enjoy a leisurely breakfast and read the Bible together before we go work in the store. But I will be glad when he can carry those 25 pound boxes of fruit again.

Today, once again, is errand day. And thus, I can pop this virtual postcard into cyberspace when we stop in front of our local library. We can use their wireless internet access to check the latest Dell battery recall and order a few pictures of Merritt’s x-rays and our niece and nephews with my laptop, without ever leaving our car. A far cry from the old days on the farm, and the postal methods of the Pony Express, but we could pretend it’s old-fashioned.

Thank you to each and every one who has been praying for us. Merritt is improving so much each day—and when we think back to last week, or the week before, the change is like night and day. His stitches are out, the wounds are healing, and he even wore jeans, socks and tennis shoes to church on Sunday! Yesterday was the first day he worked in the store all day long, and his foot wasn’t nearly as swollen as we thought it would be. Merritt still gets tired out much more easily than my strong, energetic man used to—but his body is busy healing, and crutches, he says, are hard work. It is nice to have Merritt able to drive now. I am just looking forward to the day when his arms aren’t busy with crutches and I can hold my husband’s hand once again while we are shopping.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

Doughnuts for breakfast. A book on tape—Shane by Jack Schaefer. Brunch of eggs, sausage, and heart-shaped biscuits with leftover garlic gravy.

The breakfast dishes takes twice as long with my husband watching me. Every other dish is an excuse for running to give him a kiss.

It’s wash day. Bright sunshine and 99 degrees, the clothes dry faster on the line than they would in the dryer. I hang them carefully, letting the wind and the sun do as much of my ironing as possible.

Iced tea and lemonade. A game of Clue with my husband and brother-in-law. Tortilla chips and homemade salsa. Brownies and more iced tea.

The laundry is done. The bed made up with crisp, sun-dried sheets. The house still neat and tidy from having Bible study here last night.

Now it’s peach yogurt, watermelon, and a quiet evening with my husband. What a happy Monday.

I love having my husband home with me all day. I could get used to this, except for the pain he’s in. But each day we see such progress. And when I compare his leg to the pictures I took in the hospital, there is drastic improvement on the outside. We will get the official report from the doctor tomorrow when the stitches come out, but I don’t need any letters after my name to know my husband is doing better. He hopped around the house with broom in hand and swept the floor. He did the dishes twice, when I wasn’t here to make him go back to his recliner. And he’s reading a book without pictures.

Each day brings new blessings to count. When Merritt called the hospital about our bill, they gave us a forty-percent discount because we are with Samaritan Ministries. That means that Samaritan should be able to cover nearly everything. We are so thankful. Our family and friends have been so kind, and our new church family has been a special encouragement. Each day the mail lady brings a new stack of cards, reminding us how we are being prayed for. Truly, we have more blessings than we can count.

Though it seems strange to say, in many ways we are thankful for what happened two and a half weeks ago. Through Merritt’s accident, God has shown us His faithfulness in so many new ways. We have been surrounded by the family of God, showered with gifts of time and money, and covered by so very many prayers. It has meant so much to have people step up to the plate and help out Merritt’s family with the farm and store. We are overwhelmed at the generous checks we find in our mailbox. And every one who has told me they were praying for us—if only I could tell them how much we felt those prayers, holding us up, giving us strength when we had none. It was not something I would have chosen for our first months of marriage—but oh what a blessing it has been. Truly, great is God’s faithfulness.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.

I love my life. God has been so good to us. We are so happy here in our little pink house. (And we’re joking about actually painting it pink when we put siding on it, just to keep our identity.)

It has been nearly two weeks since Merritt’s accident. I’m seeing him improve daily now. He has a lot more energy, and has begun to “feel like himself again,” he says. The problem is keeping him down. His leg isn’t throbbing as much, but his foot starts to swell when it’s been down too long (whether it’s getting up to make us a milkshake before bedtime or maneuvering all around the tractor and baler to show a visiting friend how to work it when he bales tonight). Merritt is very much looking forward to getting his stitches out on Monday—I counted twenty-five stitches that seem that many times bigger than those of even a beginning quilter. But every time we change the dressing, his leg looks much “better” (where scabs and bruises are defined as better). And his arm, though missing its farmer’s tan, is looking much more pink, like just a really bad sunburn.

We are thankful for more time together at home these days. But strangely, I’m not getting the dishes done or the floor mopped any more often than I did when we worked in the store all day. Merritt’s looking forward to the day when he can stand long enough to do dishes—but it will be a while before I let him. Those first few days home, it was hard to adjust to being responsible for everything, without leaning on Merritt for the hard tasks. And then I would catch myself going to straighten his shoes, or pick up his work clothes for the laundry, and they weren’t there. Little reminders of how thankful I am that my husband is still here, that I will still have those tasks to do once he gets back up and around.

From the time I met Merritt, I knew that “no man is an island”—I needed Merritt to be complete. But the past few weeks have taught me that no couple is an island, either. Of course, I didn’t expect our island to be quite so populated during our second month of marriage. But the people that stop in every day or so to visit are much-needed reminders that we aren’t in this alone—we have friends who care. And my tearful phone call to my mom from the hospital room, “please come,” was proof that I will always need my mommy, even as a married woman.

Each day when we get the mail, we are overwhelmed by the kind cards, the reassurances of prayer…and the bills. We are grateful that even though we don’t have insurance, we are part of Samaritan Ministries, a group of Christians who share medical expenses. While we don’t know yet if they will be able to cover the entire sum, we have already been overwhelmed by generous gifts from others. I can’t tell you how grateful we are. (But we might mention that next time you choose between a trip to Hawaii and a visit to the hospital, the trip to Hawaii will be much cheaper.)

But most of all, we are so thankful for your continued prayers. They mean so very much.

Now my coffee’s getting cold, and the rooster’s persistent crowing means I need to fix my husband some breakfast so we can start on our day’s Expotition, as Winnie the Pooh would say. But I think Merritt will need more than a pot of honey for the long drive and errands we have planned. Our list, however, includes borrowing a wheelchair, so he can go grocery shopping with me. I’m so glad—his sister came with me on Monday, or else I wouldn’t have known what to do, I’m so used to having him along to push the cart and choose his favorite kind of yogurt.

But after we’ve discovered the North Pole and maybe even shot a heffalump or two, I’ll tuck him into bed with a half dozen pillows beneath his leg, and we’ll start on our latest piece of literature by A.A. Milne, The Red House Mystery. Before I discovered it at my favorite used bookstore, I didn’t know Milne wrote anything but Winnie the Pooh. But of course, if the book had been about Winnie the Pooh and Piglet, maybe the house would have been pink, instead.

©2010 Young Ladies Christian Fellowship. All Rights Reserved.